


Riding Habit

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Chairs, Dildos, Established Relationship, Facials, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Sherlock is a Size Queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What,” I managed, “on earth—”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Holmes swung his leg over and settled down on the plush seat. It creaked under his weight. “This, my dear Doctor, is what they call ingenuity. Do you like it?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“I- I say, Holmes—”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>He took pity on me. “Come, John. I will not be coy with you if you promise me the same courtesy. I found it in a curiosity shop, and I wish to use it in your illustrious and appreciative company.”</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Habit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaradel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/gifts).



> Written as a commission for Jen. [Want one?](http://mistyzeo.tumblr.com/post/134646889382/mistyzeo-commission-me-to-write-a-fic-and)
> 
> Beta thanks to TheMarcusCircus and tweedisgood!

My friend and long-time companion, Sherlock Holmes, was not as good at hiding things as he believed. He was certainly very skilled at not giving away secrets, especially when they related to a case and he was gathering the threads of a mystery in his hands, but over the years his own emotions and reactions had become, to me, as transparent as glass.

In all fairness, some of that had to do with the romantic nature of our relationship, and his gradual warming to me as a confidant. As hard as I had worked to be able to read his moods and whims, so too had he given me the opportunity and the permission to see them. This meant that even when he _wanted_ to hide something from me, he found it rather more difficult than he had at the beginning of our friendship.

So: Sherlock Holmes was agitated. I had expected the mystery of the antiques dealer’s daughters, and the clearing-up thereof, to have satisfied him mentally for a few weeks, but it wasn’t so. Almost as soon as it was done, and all the relevant clues tied up neatly in a bundle for Scotland Yard, he was fidgeting in his armchair, smoking too quickly, ruining a few chemistry experiments, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But he was trying to hide it. When I put down my paper and begged him to stop pacing lest he go straight through the carpet, he threw himself onto the sofa in a valiant attempt at staying still. He invited me out on significantly more strolls than was usual for the week after a case. He was anxious about something, but I didn’t know for the life of me what it could be. I tried reading his correspondence, but I was generally permitted to do that anyway and didn’t find anything unusual. I went over my notes from the case again, looking for a loose thread, something that would annoy him if it had been left unfinished, and found nothing unaccounted for. I was at a loss.

Then Holmes disappeared for the better part of a day, and with him my intention to ask what the matter was. When he was ready, he would tell me. I had to trust him.

It was well that I did, for he returned in the evening in a cab. I watched from the sitting room window as he descended in a swirl of coat tails and paid the driver handsomely. One of the Irregulars was in the street, and Holmes called to him. The boy vanished while Holmes waited on the pavement, and was back a moment later with a companion. Together, the lads unloaded an enormous crate from the back of the cab, and under Holmes’s supervision carried it into the house and upstairs. I could hear him chiding them for their carelessness with a note of genuine concern in his voice. The sitting room door was open to the hall, and he met my eyes as he reached the top of the stairs. To my surprise, a blush suffused his cheeks and he glanced away furtively.

At once, I was suspicious.

The Irregulars and their burden followed Holmes up the stairs, and he led it into the sitting room and had them set it carefully on the floor. It didn’t look heavy enough to require the effort of two boys, but he paid them each a shilling and saw them out. Then, finally, he turned back to me. His face was still pink.

“Well,” I said.

“Good evening, Watson,” said he, his voice very calm.

“What have you got there?” I asked.

“I will be happy to show you,” he said, “but, perhaps, after dinner. If you can suppress your curiosity long enough.”

I shrugged, my hands in my pockets. “I suppose I shall have to.”

Holmes’s blush deepened, and he busied himself with taking off his hat and gloves, hanging up his overcoat, and lighting a pipe. I watched him move around the sitting room, curious. His agitation had increased in the presence of the crate, but he was trying _even harder_ to suppress it. This, then, was the source of the fuss: but how was it related to the antiques shop? He was so uncharacteristically shy about it, I wondered if there was something scandalous inside that crate. That made sense of his request that we wait until after dinner. But such a big item? I couldn’t imagine what awaited me.

It was nearly seven; Mrs Hudson would appear soon with our dinner, and then I would find out. I could be patient.

 

Holmes, however, struggled with that task, and shooed Mrs Hudson out almost as soon as she had put the meal down on the table. He ate quickly, glared at me when I did not match his pace, and gulped down his glass of wine.

“Holmes,” I said, reaching for his hand. “My dear fellow. You will make yourself sick, or drunk, and I suspect neither of those states would lend itself to whatever you have planned for tonight.”

He took a deep breath, turning his hand over in mine to hold it, and laughed at himself. “You are right, as usual,” said he. “I am… excited.”

I raised an eyebrow. Slowly, I rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand, and he shivered. “Excited, in what way?” I asked.

“Watson,” he said, embarrassed.

I smirked at him. He let go of my hand and picked up his napkin, which rested beside him on the table. He dabbed daintily at his mouth, then replaced it.

“Finish your dinner, if you please,” he said, and left the room.

I obliged, and rang for dinner to be taken away.

“That’ll be all for tonight, thank you,” Holmes said to the maid as he came back, and she bobbed briefly in the doorway. I closed the door behind her.

Holmes went at once to the crate. He pried the top off with the claw end of a hammer and set it aside. The thing inside was draped with a velvet cloth, and Holmes lifted the whole item out and set it on the floor before drawing the drape off. I looked into his face at the last moment, and he was as red as beetroot.

No wonder.

The _thing_ on the floor between us was perfectly obscene. Its primary feature was the enormous wooden phallus that stuck up from the middle, polished and gleaming. The phallus was attached to a rippled velvet cushion, ruby red, which covered a slatted, slanted wooden seat. Facing the phallus, on the upper end of the seat, was a wooden knob onto which, presumably, one could grip while— partaking. The whole thing rocked slightly with the force of the removal of the velvet drape, and I saw that the rocking was quiet the point.

It was the dirtiest thing I’d ever seen. Blood rushed into my face and my prick at once, making me decidedly lightheaded.

“What,” I managed, “on earth—”

Holmes swung his leg over and settled down on the plush seat. It creaked under his weight. “This, my dear Doctor, is what they call ingenuity. Do you like it?”

“I- I say, Holmes—”

He took pity on me. “Come, John. I will not be coy with you if you promise me the same courtesy. I found it in a curiosity shop, and I wish to use it in your illustrious and appreciative company.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. I could not tear my eyes away from the stiff wooden phallus that protruded upwards between his thighs. He noticed my distraction and spread his legs, rubbing himself slowly against it. His knuckles were white where he gripped the wooden knob for balance. “Well for God’s sake,” said I, “take it upstairs at once!”

Holmes laughed, delighted, and stood up. The line of his trousers was distorted, the anticipation and the bit of a show he’d put on already affecting him. I grabbed him before he could get too far and slid my hand over the bulge, feeling the half-hard weight of his prick. He gasped and I kissed him, stealing the breath from his mouth. His hands fisted in my jacket. I could feel his thundering heart in the palm of my hand, his cock stiffening as I rubbed him.

“Enough,” he managed, pushing me away with both hands on my chest. “Enough.” He was flushed and panting, his eyes dark and wide.

“Quite,” I said, and picked up the obscene chair by its knob— though not its _knob_. Holmes opened the door, stuck his head out, and ushered me quickly into the hall and up the stairs to my bedroom.

My bedroom was not maintained for appearances, though it certainly helped. Holmes’s, adjacent to the sitting room, was smaller than mine and absolutely full to the brim with strange paraphernalia and scientific equipment. He slept there with some regularity, but most of our time together was spent in my room. I certainly didn’t want to sleep— or make love to him— under the watchful eye of a dozen notorious criminals (though I’ll admit to doing both, on occasion). My room was larger, brighter, and, significantly, farther from our landlady’s own apartments.

Holmes followed me up the stairs and shut my door with a surprising amount of care. Two grown men running about and slamming doors would only draw attention. I put the rocking seat down in the middle of the room. As soon as he had turned to me again, I pulled him into my arms and kissed him. He moaned into my mouth, clawing at the back of my coat, pushing his hips against mine. His cock was rigid now, trapped in his trousers, and mine was rising to meet it. I wrestled his jacket off his shoulders and threw it aside, fumbling next with his tie.

“Where the hell did you find this thing?” I demanded, as we tore at one another’s clothing. My jacket joined his and my waistcoat was not far behind.

He was unbuttoning my shirt as he answered, “In the shop _next_ to Mr Smedley’s— do you remember I went in there for an hour or so?— there was a curtained-off corner of curiosities and this… _thing_ … just sitting there at the back, cool as you please.”

“So you bought it?” I yanked his shirt out of his trousers and shoved my hands up the back of it, caressing the long, smooth line of his spine and flanks. He nuzzled into the crook of my neck and bit me, just hard enough to sting.

“No,” he said. He licked the spot he’d just bitten and I allowed him to pull my shirt off my arms. It meant letting go of him, but then I could start working on his trousers. “I went back, just after I’d— finished everything— John, for heaven’s sake—”

I’d gone to my knees, pulling open his buttons, and had my face pressed to the bulge of his groin. I glanced up. “I’m listening.”

He snorted, carding his hands roughly through my hair, disarranging it. I winked at him and went back to what I was doing. The heady, thick smell of his arousal made me dizzy with want. His prick twitched against my cheek.

“Yes, right,” said he, adjusting his stance to accommodate my deviance. “Well, I couldn’t just… _buy_ it. But I went back.”

“In disguise,” I remembered, gripping his arse with both hands. “You put on that… horrible, garish dandy outfit of yours.”

“I told them it was for an experiment with my wife,” Holmes said, and, “oh, bloody hell,” as I breathed out hard and pulled back to pull his trousers down around his hips.

“And they believed that you, in that get-up, had a wife?”

Holmes tugged my hair in reprimand. “I didn’t need them to believe _that_ , I just needed— gyah—”

Having bared his prick, I had taken it in my hand and given it a kiss on the tip. It was already wet against my lips, and I licked off the slick salt with relish. I could also taste that his time out of the room while I’d finished my supper had been devoted to giving himself a quick wash. He was eager. I looked up at him again, licking him brazenly.

“Damn you,” he whispered, gazing down at me. “Where was I?”

“You didn’t need them to believe you?”

“Right.” He huffed a breath. I closed my mouth around the head of his prick. “I bought it, I had it delivered to my— oh, God— the little room I keep in Hackney.”

“Mm,” said I, pulling him deeper into my mouth. His thighs were trembling, trapped by his trousers, and the muscles of his backside were taut with the effort of staying still.

“I got the note that it— f— John— it was delivered today, this morning, so I went to—I went—ah—”

“You went to get it,” I said, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “How long have you been anticipating this?”

“God, ten days? I am on fire. I need it inside me, I need you, I—”

I stood up and cupped his face in my hands. I kissed his panting mouth, quieting him. I could feel the tremors in his body. “We’ll have to be strategic about it,” I said.

We looked at the chair together. The wooden phallus loomed, nearly nine inches long and at least three around.

He clung to my arms and said, “Yes,” rather weakly.

“Finish getting undressed, you madman,” said I, and followed my own advice. 

 

When we were down to our overheated skin, I kissed him again, opening his mouth with my tongue and supping on the taste of his eagerness. His long hands skimmed up and down my arms, across my shoulders, up into my hair and down my back. He caressed the edge of the scar that pitted my left shoulder and bit at my lower lip. I pressed my hips to his, his prick against my belly and mine bumping up underneath, nudging into his thick hair. He moaned aloud and broke the kiss.

“Right,” he said, and got on the bed.

I fetched the lubricant from the bedside table while he arranged himself atop the quilts: on his knees, arse up, elbows down, head hanging between his shoulders. It hid his face from me, which I suspected was his intention. I knelt up beside him and opened the jar of jelly.

“Be clinical, Doctor,” Holmes said.

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” said I, dipping two fingers into the jar and rubbing the jelly between them to warm it up. I bent to kiss the small of his back.

“If you are anything but, I will ruin this whole… this…”

“Experiment?”

“Thank you.”

“I will do my best,” I promised, “to make this as unstimulating as possible.”

Holmes laughed into the blankets and said, “I am in your hands.”

“Quite,” I agreed.

I stroked one of said hands down his back, while the other I slipped between his cheeks. His hole twitched under my fingers, and, despite my vow of only moments before, I spent a little time massaging it to warm it up. Holmes’s breathing was carefully steady, but his cock hung heavy and rigid between his thighs, and it jerked at intervals. I dipped the tip of my middle finger into him; his little noise of pleasure was all but swallowed by the bedclothes. I pushed deeper, glancing over my shoulder at our… implement. I was going to need at least three fingers, probably four, and I’d never get as deep as he needed.

“That thing puts me to shame,” I muttered, easing a second finger in alongside the first. My own prick was nevertheless standing proud, not in the least intimidated.

Holmes groaned and pushed back against my hand. “Never,” he said, “never. It is a novelty, my dear boy, and I will probably regret every minute.”

“I doubt that.” I worked two fingers in and out of him slowly, feeling his muscles tense and relax, listening to him pant. I tried not to touch his prostate, lest he be too affected by the contact. His hands clenched in the quilt; he wanted to touch himself. I bent my head to kiss him again, letting my lips linger on the soft places above the crests of his hips. I licked a stripe along his back. It was tempting to just pull my fingers out and replace them with the genuine article, but then I’d never get to _watch_ him as he rode the chair.

“John,” Holmes said, reaching back to grab my thigh, “another? And— don’t linger so.”

I grunted, acquiescing, and added more petroleum jelly at the same time. Three fingers was a tight fit, and Holmes shivered from head to toe as they sank in. His next moan was ragged, stuttering on his exhale, and he hid his face again. He was flushed all over, hectic, pink. His hole fluttered around my fingers, stretched and still hungry. I worked him until I felt the muscles relaxing into the stretch; I wouldn’t let him be hurt, not for anything.

“I’m— I’m going to add another,” I said, swallowing. My heart was thundering. Holmes nodded quickly, fingers flexing on my thigh. His other hand raked through his hair, holding on tight. I had to pull my fingers out to make the switch, and he groaned desperately at the slide. I folded my little finger in alongside the others, holding them in as close as I could. The tips went in smoothly, but I met resistance as I sank in deeper. “Push back against me,” I whispered. Holmes took a deep breath and obliged, and then all at once I was inside him to the third knuckle. His body clamped down on my hand, holding me in place, while we both struggled to breathe.

“By Jove,” Holmes croaked.

“I say,” said I. “How— how much more—?”

“Hnng,” said he.

“Right.” I turned my hand, dizzy. Holmes whined, back arching, pulling away from me and dragging me nearer at the same time. I braced myself on his back and turned my hand again, drowning in the crush of his muscles, the uncontrolled little noises that were escaping him. His knees slid on the quilt, spreading his hips wider. His prick almost touched the bed. I reached underneath him and curled my hand around it, feeling its hot pulse and its slippery head. Holmes groaned deeply, jerking, as if to get away from the sensation, but I had him trapped between my hands. He was leaving a wet patch on our quilt where he was dripping. His backside was slick was the petroleum jelly, my hand buried into him almost to my _thumb_ , and he shone with sweat. He picked his head up off the bed and looked at me over his shoulder. His eyes were nearly black, like storm clouds.

“How’s that?” I asked, in a whisper, rocking my hand inside him.

“Not clinical enough,” he said.

I grinned. “Shall we move on?”

“Bloody hell, we’d better.”

“Let me go, then.”

“Hah— I’m not sure— how, exactly—”

“Well,” I said, “it isn’t the most romantic, but you’ll have to bear down like you’re—”

“Yes, right, thank you,” Holmes said, and tried to pull his knees together again. He put his head down and I felt him go tense, and then my hand slid free. He made an incredible noise at the loss, and fell slowly, almost gingerly, to the side.

“Are you all right?” I asked, wiping my hand off carelessly on the blankets and rolling him by the hip onto his back.

He was catching his breath. His cock was still rigid and red. As I looked, it twitched and pulsed out another sluggish drop of fluid. I couldn’t help myself: I bent to taste it.

“John!”

I sucked him deeper, filling my mouth, stopping my throat, and slid three fingers back into him, finding his prostate unerringly. He shouted, clawing at my shoulders, hips jerking up to accept me. I bobbed my head, swallowing him down, while he writhed in an agony of ecstasy. I could taste how close he was.

“No,” he said, finally getting a grip on me and pushing me away, “no, John, by God, I didn’t spend ten guineas on that—”

“Ten guineas!” I cried, sitting up.

He laughed, delighted. “I knew that would— get your attention— no, it was four. Now get out of me so that I can— make an enormous fool of myself.”

I glared at him and extracted my fingers again. I climbed off the bed and helped him up. He wobbled on his long legs, moving stiffly, and I covered his face with kisses, astonished and amazed at him, as usual. He smiled against my mouth. We turned, as one, to the thing he’d bought.

Holmes narrowed his eyes at it, and his hand tightened on mine.

“How are you going to— sit on it?” I asked. “Which way—?”

“I think if— if it were built for a woman, without— that is to say, I think I’ll—” He let go of me and went to arrange it, turning the slope of the chair toward me, the prick pointing up at an angle. He stepped over it, so that the phallus was behind him, curving up; its shaped wooden bollocks would rub against his own, if he could get down that far. The knob, for balance, would be against his back. “Like this?”

“That seems… reasonable?”

“This is mad,” Holmes said.

“Yes,” I said, “but I can’t wait to see you roger yourself with that monstrous thing, so we’re not stopping now.”

He shivered and held out his hands to me again. I took them. His pulse was like a hummingbird; his hair was a wreck, standing  up in several directions. I was the luckiest man alive to see him like this: human and carnal and shuddering with desire.

“Let me brace you while you sit,” I said. “So it doesn’t— go in too fast—”

His prick twitched, but he nodded. He readjusted his stance and glanced behind himself, giggled nervously, and bent his knees. He stood up again almost at once. “I’m going to miss it,” he said.

I knelt, placing his hands on my shoulders, and held the phallus steady. He squatted again, trusting me, and I put my other palm on his backside as he descended to guide him. In a moment he felt the touch of my fist, hesitated, and as I slid my hand down the wooden prick he followed, easing it into his body.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, the profanity falling unexpectedly from his lips. Holmes’s use of language was precise and deliberate, and a word like that sounded so uncontrolled. I had to close my eyes for a moment. Holmes whined, his hands tight on my shoulders. “It’s too— oh, it’s too much, John.”

“No,” I murmured, opening my eyes again to watch the slow progress of my beloved being speared on a gigantic prick. His legs were shaking and his erection had wilted somewhat. “You can do it. Come on, Sherlock; you can take it.”

He made another wordless noise through gritted teeth, and I looked up into his red face. He nodded.

“You’re nearly there,” I said. “Only an inch or two more.”

“ _God_ ,” he moaned. “I am split in two. What was I—?”

“The way you want this makes me dizzy,” I said, sliding both hands underneath his arse to support him. My fingers found the stretched rim of his arsehole and he gasped aloud. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like, waiting for this, imagining it… is it as you expected?”

“More,” he groaned. “It’s… so much more… feeling it, inside me, and you— you there, just…” He cradled my head in his palms, pulling me up to kiss him, and as I did he sank down to the base, trapping my hands against the velvet. His mouth was hot and his tongue slid insistently against mine, claiming every bit of me. I couldn’t move my hands, so I satisfied myself with digging my fingers into the flesh of his arse. He moaned again, biting my lip, and shifted to free me. When he sank back down, it was with a slow exhale that I shared.

My knees ached, but I couldn’t bear to move away from him. I slid my hands up his taut thighs, thinking to soothe him but doing quite the opposite. He clung to my shoulders, panting. Every twitch of his body rocked the chair under him, shifting the huge phallus inside him. Now that the initial shock of penetration had passed and he became accustomed to the feeling, his prick started to stiffen again. He had also regained some of his composure.

“I do not anticipate,” he said, pulling back from me slightly, “being able to, as you suggested, properly roger myself with this,” and I laughed aloud, “but it will— it is very— stimulating, just as it is.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Should I stay just like this and give you something to hold onto?”

Holmes licked his lips, hesitating, and then said, “No, I should like it very much if you stood up.”

I obliged, slowly, creakily, showing my age. He caught me by the hips as soon as I was upright and tugged me to stand between his wide-spread feet. He was eye-level with my cock. Rather, his mouth was level with my cock, and that was evidently his object. He took me in hand and I wobbled at the touch, the delayed gratification making my knees weak.

“Steady,” said he, glancing up at me and giving me a slow stroke from root to tip. I put both hands on his head to balance. I was leaking over his nimble fingers, and already on the verge of bursting. Watching him impale himself had been almost more than my heart, or my libido, could handle. 

His tongue darted out and touched my tip, sending another bolt of pleasure through me. I combed his hair away from his face with my fingers as he pulled me deeper into his mouth. His breathing was still erratic, the smallest movement of any part of his body causing him to gasp and falter. The hand that was not occupied with holding my cock steady for his sweet, clever mouth stole between his legs and began to caress his own prick. This caused another shuddering exhale and a slow drag of his lips along my shaft. He rolled his tongue around my tender head, licking at my slit and sensitive underside, toying with my foreskin. Then he sucked me deep again, pushing me against the pit of his throat, and I felt his moan as I much as I heard it.

The angle wasn’t good, but I could see his hand moving faster between his thighs. He had gripped himself tightly now and was rocking his hips in a careful rhythm. The seat creaked under him; I could feel his trembling. I tightened my hands in his hair and, granted the grace of his nod, began to thrust shallowly into his hollowed mouth. I couldn’t push deep or I would stop his breathing, and it seemed to be all he could do to _keep_ breathing. His eyes had fallen closed, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his flushed cheeks. I could already feel my peak threatening, but I wanted to watch him come apart before I gave into my release.

He was close. He began to vocalise on every exhale, little desperate whimpers that rattled my composure. My cock swelled in his mouth. He tugged on my prick, his hand moving slickly, meeting his lips on every stroke. He was shaking, and I couldn’t say which of us would come to glory first, nor could I decide which would be better.

Then, struck by an idea, I pulled his hair sharply and slid out of his mouth. I took myself in hand while he stared up at me, rocking and gasping, and began to stroke myself swiftly, still aiming for his half-open mouth. He understood my intentions and gripped my hip, fisting his cock furiously. My orgasm rose up swiftly, coiling deep in my gut, and Holmes licked his reddened lips in anticipation.

“Now,” I said suddenly, “Holmes, I’m—”

“Yes,” he replied, and closed his eyes.

I spurted, hot and thick, across his upturned face, streaking his lips and cheek. The second shot met his mouth, more or less, but at that moment his own peak took hold of him and he came, groaning and shaking. I couldn’t hold him still, nor did he try to stay so. He twisted in my grip, and my spending marked his cheek and neck. If I’d got it in his hair he’d be furious, but I couldn’t worry about that just now. I pushed my cock back into his mouth and he sucked the tail end of my orgasm from me, moaning.

I let go of him and staggered away. He was speared, knees spread wide, unable to relax. I knelt again before him, almost reverent. He lifted his hands to my shoulders, and together we slowly, excruciatingly, pried him free of the monstrous wooden prick. He cried out as it left him, and I caught him as he slumped. Behind him, the seat rocked innocently.

“Bloody hell,” Holmes said, as I laid him out in bed. I wet a flannel and wiped his face clean, kissing it when it was done. He lifted a heavy arm to wrap around my neck and kissed me back, slowly and deeply. I threw the flannel away and climbed into bed beside him.

“Where are we going to keep this monstrosity?” I asked, a few minutes later, when we were safe and warm beneath the blankets, cuddled up together as close as we could be.

“The attic. The basement. The yard.” Holmes yawned and nuzzled into my shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“Well, we can’t just leave it out,” I said. “It’s… not subtle. There are only so many things Mrs Hudson will ignore.”

Holmes giggled and bit my neck softly. “You’ll think of something,” he said.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> goodnight.


End file.
